The Green Man

He speaks for the uprooted. A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha. He who interprets the conferences of frogs, the unpublished works of kestrels and voles. He’s an advocate for the underbelly of a microbial heaven, for every kind of uncouth animalcule. He speaks for the bulldozed, the displaced. The native and the nomadic. He tracks the sins of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s. He glides over bogs with the frogs. He moves under tree shadows, if there are no tree shadows he takes a bus. He talks to the bears - they tell him how things are going in the suburbs. Swimming pools and trash cans, have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty. He is leafy, kits and coyote love him, Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses to trumpet his approach. When ducks quack his many sermons shotguns misfire. He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles. He is the Green Man, he is not a straw man, or a hollow man – he is green at least for now.